


I said you're holding back (she said shut up and dance with me)

by Katyuana



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, I just like the concept of wild child and what they turn out like when they grow up, Other, theyre heartbreakers I bet, what the fuck do i tag this as, whatever im fuckig tired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:06:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7561585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katyuana/pseuds/Katyuana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>self indulgent fic that has no plot really and im just rlly tired so whatever don't read this seriously because there is no seriousness intended at all </p><p>so the wild child grows up and predictably, no one is ever able to tame them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I said you're holding back (she said shut up and dance with me)

**Author's Note:**

> title from shut up and dance by walk the moon
> 
> second chapter will be her romances because I need to exercise my romantic writing muscles :/

When people see the wild child, all grown up, it's like seeing something inhuman take human form. It's almost unsettling, except that the wild child has always been nature's babe and never deliberately cruel. 

The wild woman walks in the most extraordinary ways. She takes her steps like she's making her way across dangerous land, where her weight could make the ground collapse under her. She hops and lopes, leaning her body forward, steps as fleeting as butterfly wing beats. It's fast, cautious and careless. She tilts, her face perpendicular to the ground, facing the upcoming world head on and without trepidation. Always stepping forward, quickly, cautiously, carelessly, and ready to take it. 

The wild woman can't be bothered with clothes too much. The minuscule shorts and crop tops are ninety percent of her wardrobe and the rest are scandalously tiny minidresses and skirts that could be scarves for how they're so short. She exposed skin like she can't get enough of the sun. The wild woman dozes in sunny spots, uncaring of the looks and the glares that her underdressed form gathers. She soaks up the light and she lives in the sunbeams with toothy smirks and arched eyebrows that dare anyone to deny her what she is due. The sun kisses her gently, never burning her and she pools the light in her hands and smiles. 

The wild woman has friends, fleeting acquaintances and summer romances. She surrounds herself with people who welcome her. She is a dancing enigma, everyone who sees her wants to see her and know her and have her close. Pulling them in, giving them half of her but never enough to satisfy curiosity, then pulling back, dancing out of their grips and smiling all the while. No one can ever say they were they weren't expecting it; she will always be wild, untamable. She will always leave on her terms, she will never be tied down. 

The wild woman, she has her romances. Those who romance her, they find themselves swept up in the blaze of her. She feels like a storm, washing over them with thundering excitement. The rain that patters down with drum-like intensity, is her attention, as strong as thousands of pounds of water boring down on them. The lightning, racing through the sky and occasionally deigning to land on earth, is her passion, is her love. It's electrifying, it's shocking and demanding and wonderful and leaves her lovers shaking and wanting more of this wild woman. The thunder, pounding like war drums over the heavens, is her tempers, her fighting with them and snarling like the beast cornered. The fights are epic and painful. The lovers don't like fighting with her and they come back every time, until they don't. The summer is over, the storm has passed. 

The wild woman, her eyes are the eyes of a hurricane. Almost eerily still but with the unspoken implication that it could turn into lashing winds and stinging floods of water. Her hair is as wild as she is, curls and tangles just the same, massive and piled over her neck and draping down her back. Skin darkened by the sun's kisses, dotted with freckles, she shows off herself almost unwittingly, except that she knows. She knows and she smiles, dimples on full display and teasing on her face. Her crop tops don't hide her belly's rolls; she will never deny herself anything, much less a good meal's worth of food. Her thighs jiggle as she runs, healthy and well fed, a picture of confidence in herself. If she's happy with herself, then who's going to say she shouldn't be? She spreads her toes, letting the light seep through them, and grins at the flowers she's weaved into a crown. 

The wild woman is the child grown up, the heavy and blunt crystal faceted into a smooth and precise gem. Coltish legs into strong powerful legs and chest swelling into life feeding mounds. Blood flows from her every so often and she treats it with familiar disdain and just a little anger, dashed with hormonal aches and pains. She's the same and different as can be. Interests come and go, her face sharpening and rounding, the sun bleaching her dark hair five shades lighter, loves and favorites changing and staying the same.


End file.
